Second Born
by Harlequin Sequins
Summary: Who is he to deserve love where he has not earned it?


_Author's Notes: _I'm not sure if I will continue this into Faramir's adolescence and adulthood, but I thought I would just share this with all of you. Thanks for reading. (Ignore the many errors...I will go back and tend to them once I have time).

Disclaimer - Faramir, Finduilas, Boromir and Denethor belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.

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><p>It is not that he does not wish to hate him. No, that is not the issue that stands before him at all! It is only that he is not <em>Boromir. <em>

Boromir, you must understand, is perfection. And not just any commonplace sort of the being who is empty of flaws and filled instead with light and glory. He is _the _perfection, the most singular of all – as the general of war, the orator for peace and justice, the wielder of the mighty sword and the judge of life and death in battle. He treads with ease the delicate balance between gentlest reason and reckless greed of the heart. For both country and for love he grips the shield and carries the blood which stains his hands. He does not tremble beneath the black glower of death.

Yes, you must know – Boromir is of the singular kind. A prized jewel amongst the coal of common men, like the formless charcoal of his artless, foolish brother.

There is no man who boasts such equal quality. For he who endeavors is but a hollow mimicry. A life needlessly lived in vain.

Of course, there are faults in the first born. Small ones, nearly not worth mentioning in size. They hide and poke their eyes out when they think _he, _the father who knows and sees and hears all, is not aware. Oh, but is he ever aware of them! Never has a man before carried the burden of such cognizance of fault.

He sees the unmentionable weakness in the older boy whom he loves with all the heart (the beating thing that also hides, like the flaws in his first born, but it is concealed behind the cold years of loss and callus). They line the righteous brow and the warm familiar grey of the eyes like gaping black fissures.

Only he may look upon them and pick them out – he, Denethor, the father and the admiring master of his living breathing craft.

Faramir is no masterpiece of open honest skin and the beating pushing blood of a warrior.

No, Faramir is second to Boromir in everything.

Who is he to deserve love where he has not earned it?

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><p>The origin of rivalry has many names, many faces, shifting and molding itself to fit the shape of the heart it must inhabit. Fear, doubt, hatred – all of these the grey silhouettes in the colored spectrum we know as concrete, unshakeable forces. For against courage, faith and love they are but silver wraiths in a distant rolling fog. We do not know them like we know their gentle counterparts. We simply feel them, misunderstand the roots coiling around the heart and the mind and the warm phantom soul, and call them ghosts and traitors.<p>

"_Denethor, he is your _son_."_

But they are not, really.

They are just as black and white as any feeling.

Every sentiment has a foundation upon which it stands.

"_I have but one son."_

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><p>The second born son is neither planned nor wanted by his father. When news came of him, in the strange and stifling hot spring of the year 2983, it was not welcomed with the fanfare of a joyous and much anticipated occasion. She had expected surprise, perhaps the first reluctance of shock, even outrage that would dwindle down to a quiet contentment. But none of these were present in the face of her lover, her husband, her one and only haven in this darkening world. Something was beginning to chance in him. And it began with the conception of the second born.<p>

She was met with distance, even resentment, and he did not spare her the cruelty of both. After the initial silence, the pleasant numbness of surprise was honed into a hard unyielding layer of new hatred for an unborn child. A defenseless and unknowing infant. Finduilas tempted her husband with softness and affection.

But as she grew larger, the months passing and her stomach ripening with the growing young being inside of her, Denethor became more and more aloof to her and their coming second son. The hardness in him was resilient against her slow and measured peeling away, the callus too stiff; it would not budge beneath her prying fingers. She would not turn in the darkness to look on him as she once did in the dead husk of night.

She remembers when news of Boromir had reached him. He had been away, she recalls, and upon his return and the imparting of her secret he had showered her in gifts. Flowers and jewels and all the sweets the world in its entirety could render. Within the shadow of his encompassing glow, she fed off the golden shade and held her own against his perfect sentient gleaming. He had told her she'd never looked so beautiful. And she, in turn, had wondered if he had ever boasted the same loveliness.

Never again has he carried with him such an inhuman radiance. Like silver Elvish grace taken to human form. Now the gray sullenness has carved itself into his face. Where has the old and beautiful glow gone?

_We need no second heir. No second born!_

Finduilas had set her jaw, her teeth locked against her tongue. _I will love him as if he were my first, _she had replied to him.

And so it came to pass...

That the second born was delivered into a world without the love of a father.

But twice as strong was the love of his ailing mother.

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><p>"Denethor, please. Will you not even look on him? Will you not go to your son?"<p>

"I wish you would not test my wearied patience."

"He bears quite a resemblance to his great father."

"With the eyes of a foolish mother."

"Is it too much to ask of you to love what is ours?"

"Boromir is ours. This boy I will not claim as my own. You may have him. But I will not be burdened with such a useless life."

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><p>Boromir had watched his unborn sibling grow behind his mother's shielding stomach. Never had he missed a kick, a rustling, not the slightest movement went untouched or unheard by the sharp senses of his youth. He had asked his mother so unabashedly what they all were, those strange activities.<p>

"_What's he doing in there, mama? Is he stretching his legs? Does he wish to come out?"_

"_Why do you not ask him yourself dear one?"_

"_Will he answer?"_

"_No, my darling, for now I fear he cannot. Nor will he be able to for a very long time."_

Boromir's face had fallen, darkening under the weight of crushed hope. What use was a brother that could not speak? That could not emulate the war cry of the Haradrim and make speeches as the fearless Gondorian warrior? A brother that could not sing or fight or remember the great stories of old? Oh, how his heart had been broken! How stark was the mark of loss which had stained his brow with shadow.

Finduilas, with great difficulty, had stooped low to meet the eyes of her crestfallen first born. They had leveled with hers, mirrors of gray, but hers were warm where his were fashioned cold. Like his father's.

But in hers, the sleek steely clarity of silver blanched them, like a blush of the light.

"_But he will hear you, Boromir. He will remember your every word, every speech, every question. When he comes at last, you see, he will already know you…for he will have heard the warmth in your voice."_

The months had passed slowly for him. And in untarnished wonder that only a child may know and bend to his will, he had waited and he had watched. His mother had grown with a painful steadiness that he could hardly have borne if it were not for those movements. Denethor had thought it silly of his first born, to be enamored so with the abstract shifting about of an unborn child. As the favorite son, he should have known better – better than to disappoint the high expectations of his father's pedestal.

Boromir had not understood his father's detachment from certainly had been the gradual unveiling of a miracle. He had not joined them on afternoons when Finduilas rested, her eager son clamoring for another listen, the chance to ask another question and whisper it into the little unseen ear beneath the layers of breath and blood and bone. Those afternoons might have been the most fondly remembered of what little time he had with his mother. For they had been brimming with endless inquiries and he heard much of her clear and silver laughter mingling with the mild summer air.

"_Why does father not join us? Does he not love him?"_

"_How do you know you do not speak of a sister dear one?"_

"_I just know, mama. I know things."_

When Faramir finally had come in the dead of winter, he loved the fragile screaming creature the moment he saw him. It had been as if the birth had come in the most unexpected hour, when the world was white and dead and it crunched like old bleached bones beneath his feet. But there it was – _life_. Proof that it still flourished in winter when it seemed like it had disappeared.

And the wonder had been, in the span of a split second, been replaced with an ever growing fondness.

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><p>"<em>Father, why do you shun him so? Does your love not measure equally for the both of us?"<em>

"_It is not your place to ask such questions."_

"_No, it is not! My place is in battle. Where I may lay waste to every living thing that comes my way just as skillfully as any mindless animal. Is that not my place? Is this not the fate I was made for?"_

_Silence falls heavily upon them. Denethor wilts beneath it but Boromir does not stagger. He is strong beneath the cold metallic weight of accusation. _

"_I do not wish to discuss such matters with you."_

"_Why? Because I will not understand?"_

_The weathered father turns on him and the great golden hall trembles as his voice rises. "It is not your place!"_

_Softness returns to the old face, the creased mouth and the terrible gray eyes. A sad and weary smile of the fleeting kind appears within the creases. "Do not concern yourself with such needless burdens, my son. They are not yours to bear."_

_But he cannot hide it from the first born._

_That shadow hanging on the chewed off end of every word._

_He wants to shake the old man, shake the devils of loathing out of his hardened core._

_And let Faramir in._

_Oh, if only he could let Faramir in._

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><p>Faramir grows as if under the weight of a hungry shadow. The parasitic hatred, perhaps, of a cold and far-away longing deeply embedded in his pale and faintly beating heart. It is not any fault of his own that draws the sickness near and the dark-faced man away. None of these unending strings of ailments which strike him down are his doing or of his wish to be done. It is only that he is weakened by the suckling loathing. The black shade hanging upon every thought turned toward the tall stranger he is told to call by <em>father<em>.

Such a name unheard of by his innocent ears. He hears only Boromir speak it in the familiar warmth and glow of love. Yes, he calls upon his mother with the same radiance of affection. But _Father. _Such an alien word chafing against his tongue. _Mother _is so natural, so second nature, it is as if he calls his own name when he summons for her in the night. She is all he knows and all he cares to know. But what of this foreign belonging that he does not recognize, does not remember? Is he supposed to be something more than _boy _to the foreboding figure?

Perhaps a beloved son.

Perhaps Faramir, son of Denethor.

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><p>"Mama, does father love me?"<p>

It is a fine spring, not smothering like the one in which news of Faramir had reached her. But she can hardly feel the change. She is ever cold. The sun gives off no warming beam and the sky is but colorless water stretched thin above her dark head. She is starving for heat, for comfort, though she knows she will find none. It is the desire for something old and very much gone that draws her and her youngest son out into the pale fine morning.

"Of course he does, dear one."

Faramir plucks a myriad of flowers, weaving them as he walks and stumbles slightly over roots lying bare in the shallow ground. He has always liked colors, living things with bright and vivid hues, and though he is not old enough to learn to ride he still likes to visit the horses in their handsomely built stables. How tall they are! Soft yet towering beasts, and with so many colors. Brown and black and silver and white. His favorite is black, though he would not tell another soul that black is his partiality (not even mama, not even Boromir, but this is nothing new as Faramir reveals little to even _them_ and keeps so very much to himself). If it is a warm day, unspoiled by ill weather, he has taken to pocketing sugar cubes and apples for them. It is almost certain a visit will be in store.

He almost forgets his first question, and very nearly his mother's quiet, worn answer. But upon finishing his attempt at weaving a crown of flowers for his mother, he surveys the result. It falls apart in his hands and he remembers then. With muted resignation, he bends and picks one lonely surviving blossom from the chaos of fallen petals. It is forget-me-not, like his mother's dress.

"Mama, why does father teach Boromir things but never me?"

Finduilas stops. Faramir's short, stringy legs halt as well and he looks up at his mother, trying to figure out why it is they do not move on toward the gate. Nestled into the side of the mountains, Minas Tirith rises above them like a gray stone behemoth. In the early light, it winks with the flickering silver of the citadel within the labyrinth of structures which make up the winding city. Faramir has never looked upon a more beautiful stronghold, not in the legends of old or the myths of men. Gondor, in his eyes, is the most sublime of all places in this world – both true and imagined.

Finduilas takes his hand, waking him from reverie, and he finds her near to him. Her silver eyes search for his in their distance.

"Mama, what is wrong?"

"You know I love you, don't you darling?" She grasps his hand as tightly as she can, but it is a frail grip. "And Boromir, your brother - he loves you with all of his heart. You are not alone in this world."

In a child's mind, the innocence still reigns, and because of this sovereignty of youth Faramir does not hear the desperation in her voice. No warning is summoned to him by her words. He is unaware, and left this way, as she does not wish to destroy his white innocence. She does not wish to prematurely unleash the doubts that will come to him in time. It is only that she wishes to preserve him as he is now - unafraid and beautiful and his heart unscathed by his father's cruelty and shame. She is being selfish, she knows, in the most shameful of ways. But in her heart and in her memory she wishes to guard him from truth, giving to him lies in its stead.

When she leaves, and she must leave him behind, she does not wish to take the sadness of Faramir with her.

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><p>It is not so long before Faramir recognizes the ashen reflection of sickness in his mother's dulled eyes. They are not silver anymore. They are dead and lifeless and gray. Like his father's.<p>

It is midsummer when she takes to bed and does not leave it. He is afraid, but he is even more terrified to ask his father any questions about why his mother has abandoned him to solitude. It is a long while before he can summon enough courage to ask. Five days have passed since he saw his mother for more than a moment. Never in his life has felt more confused, more frightened.

He finds the tall and dark stranger outside of her room. Like a lonely shadow, it clings to the door, as if keeping it safe from any harm that may wish to slip inside. Faramir catches a glimpse of a pale, gaunt hand hanging off the knob of the door.

"Father?"

The figure does not turn, only bows its head a little.

"Father, why does mother not come out?"

The eyes are upon him. Oh, those eyes! They are dark, darker even than the nearly black face, and gray and cold and he feels a chill in him rising from the pooling fear in his spine. But he must not show that fear. Boromir has said that father does not like to see such failure in him. How would he accept the face of it reflected in a stranger? He could not let Father think he were _weak. _That is not it at all. It is only that he has always shied away from those he does not know.

"_You," _he says, and it is a growl that Faramir hears, the most inhuman sound he has ever heard. In terror he draws back into the wall. "This is all your _fault. _You have brought this sickness upon her with your wretched existence! Go away from me! I want you out of my sight."

Without question, he runs.

He runs as fast as his legs may carry him.

And he has never wished so ardently for Boromir, for his mother, in all his life.

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><p>The days have grown dull, no longer keen and bright with the withering away of summer and the coming of autumn. He has been afraid to go to her, afraid of the man who he knows will be there at the door. Boromir has seen her. Every day he is permitted to cross into the threshold of her sick room. Always he is attended by a servant or his father, but he is given time with her. That is all Faramir desires – time. Is it so much to ask? It is too high an aim for so low a creature?<p>

It is very late into the night when he steals out of his room, knowing he must see her again. He misses her so. How long has it been since he heard her laughter or felt a smile press its gentle weight upon her face? Within him, his heart beats frantically, and he cannot push away the ache that rolls through it like falling brambles in waves . He _must _see her. Oh the excitement that comes in knowing he shall!

He reaches the door. No specter remains there, hovering as if over the grave that holds his bones. The knob glimmers in the fractured moonlight that filters in from a crack in the door. His ears are strained to listen for her, for her movements and her voice, but he catches only the whispering darkness and the humming of the wind moving throughout the chamber. His balance slips. His feet stumble, breath snagging on a note of terror in his throat.

"Faramir, is that you?"

His eyes squeeze shut. "I am sorry. I wanted to see you. Please forgive me, mama!"

"I have wanted to see you for so very long, dearest. Let me see your face. Will you not come in and see me?"

Inside, the room is nearly empty, and it feels larger and colder than it ever had before. Panic seizes his heart, holds it still as it waits for realization to come, but it never does. He is left again in ignorant darkness. Where his mother keeps him, where he remains in secret and in silence.

He finds her nearly buried in her bed, tucked deep into the layers of her many coverlets. She opens them up for him, inviting him wordlessly into the hot cocoon under which she hides. He wonders if she is waiting for something. Like caterpillars wait for wings or trees predict their leaves to fall. Is it transformation she awaits here in hiding?

"Faramir, I want you to remember something for me – that I will always love you. No matter how far I am, I will always be there . In spirit and in memory."

She holds him very close, so close he can feel her heart beating faintly against his back.

"I'll remember, mama. I promise I will."

He does not know why, but her closeness feels wet somehow – and the searing hot drops of her nearness rolls down into his hair.

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><p>"<em>It is his fault."<em>

"_He is but a child…he has done nothing wrong and yet you set the weight of the world upon his shoulders?"_

"_He should never have been born. He is but a sickly little burden! And now because of his unnecessary existence, he shall take you away from me."_

"_You have already done that for yourself."_

"_You would not let a whelp separate us, Finduilas? Certainly our union is much stronger than that!"_

"_I would rather die than face a lifetime with you."_


End file.
